


Simple Arithmatic

by MorteMistrata



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sacrifice, bc that's McCoys favorite thing, low key torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 13:22:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20621708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorteMistrata/pseuds/MorteMistrata
Summary: McCoy, when given the option to put his life or another's on the line, will always choose his own. It's as unequivocally true as the laws that govern time and space. E= MC^2, and McCoy is a martyr. Spock has to deal with it.Originally posted in Spiced peaches, with some edits.





	Simple Arithmatic

McCoy can count. He graduated from elementary school, just like everyone else, and passed all of the basic arithmetic tests required to do so, but he hopes for the sake of the three crew members lying prone on the examination tables that he has counted wrong. 

“Five minutes has passed, Doctor. Make your decision.” 

“I haven’t figured it out yet,” He snaps, not looking back at the alien currently holding them hostage. He is so goddamn tired of supposedly ‘more intelligent and superior’ aliens playing god. Hasn’t the Enterprise dealt with enough of them? Can’t some other ship take a turn playing the part of ‘toy’? 

The alien appears behind him.

“Your time is rapidly decreasing, Doctor. It is time to choose.” McCoy has yet to actually see it move. One moment, it is far behind him, and the next, it is somewhere else. At first, the sudden movements had startled him, but now his anxiety has reached a peak, and he no longer has the energy to spare in order to respond. He has the feeling that the alien is upset that it’s tricks are wearing off. 

“I heard you the first time. Shut up so I can think.” 

The poison used on the crew is similar to a type of herbicide commonly used in terraforming. If inhaled, it causes nosebleed, shortness of breath, lung fibrosis, and nerve damage. If consumed or otherwise internally injected, it causes convulsions, memory loss, and eventually leads to death from blood clotting. Whatever was used on the crew has created a mix of these symptoms in each person. McCoy only has three antidotes. It is up to him to decide who does not recieve any. 

“Doctor,” This time it is not their captor who speaks, but Spock. McCoy looks up, and immediately notes the pale pallor of his skin. “I would recommend treating Ensign Chekhov as soon as possible. The poison seems to be affecting him most drastically.”

Chekov is smaller than everyone else. McCoy was aware from the start that he’d be affected first. He sighs. “I’m aware, Spock. Now hush up so that I can think.”

“You should treat the Captain and yourself as well. You are only human. I will be able to resist the poison’s effect longer, giving you both a better chance of survival.”

Stupid, green-blooded goblin. He’s aware of this. He knows exactly what this poison is doing in graphic detail, better than Spock does, and he knows who will die first if they are not treated. But it’s not as simple as that. Even after receiving the antidote, more treatment is needed to insure that no lasting damage occurs, and no one will be able to get that treatment if they don’t manage to escape. It’s not just a matter of who needs it most. It’s a matter of who can help the most in achieving freedom. 

Jim is holding out stubbornly, but he can see the tremors wracking his body from across the room. His eyes seem frantic and unfocused, and he’s not speaking. It’s only a matter of time before the clots begin to form, and even a specimen of perfect health would not be able to survive for long without immediate healthcare. He’s also very used to this sort of situation. His insight would be helpful in figuring out exactly what the alien wants from them. 

Chekhov is unconscious, and his shirt is almost entirely orange from his nosebleeds, and McCoy has no doubt that he will not survive if not given the antidote now. 

Spock is talking a big game, and appears to be in good health, but even with his Vulcan resolve, McCoy can see that his skin is unnaturally pale and his scanner is picking up on what appears to be pneumonia in his lungs. Out of all of them, he is the most physically fit, and will return to his healthy state faster than the rest of them will. And as much as McCoy hates to admit it, his analytical mind will treat their current situation like a puzzle, and will be able to connect the dots much faster than McCoy could ever hope to. (McCoy refuses to admit that there is another reason, one far less reasonable, that he wishes to save Spock. If he doesn’t admit to it, it doesn’t exist except in the deepest recesses of his mind.)

And then there is himself. 

His hands have been shaking for the past ten minutes, and his vision has blurred more than once as he drew up the antidotes. He was injected last, in order to give him enough time to deduce the poison and create the antidotes, but still, he has been injected. His role in this game is complete. There is little else someone as emotional, and peacefully minded can do to save them.

There are only three doses, and four afflicted. He finds that the choice of who not to inject is quite clear. 

He injects Chekov first. As the medicine works its way into his system, his body relaxes, and the look of intense pain on his face fades away to childish sleepiness. McCoy feels his pulse, and notes that it has slowed from its frantic pace. Satisfied that it’s taking affect, he moves on to Jim. As he stands over him, his friend’s eyes latch on to his face, what might be recognition appearing in his gaze as a shaking hand reaches up to grasp his own. 

“I’m gonna fix you right up,” McCoy says, voice quiet. “You’ll be alright.” 

He pushes the captain’s sleeve up to his bicep, feels to a vein, and injects. He has to pry Jim’s hand off before he can step away.

“Doctor,” Spock says sharply. “Inject yourself. It’s the only logical thing to do.”

“No,” McCoy suddenly feels very tired. He gestures at the alien, who flickers and then reappears beside Spock’s table. It places a hand around each of Spock’s arms, and though he resists, does not manage to shake him off. “It isn’t.”

“Doctor,” Spock barks. “Doctor, don’t be stupid. Inject yourself, no me.”

McCoy pulls Spock’s sleeve up to his bicep, and injects the antidote. 

All of the fight seems to go out of Spock as he removes the syringe, and sets it aside. The alien flickers, and returns to his position on the peripheral of the room. 

“Don’t be emotional Spock. You know just as well as I do that you’re our best bet at getting out of here.” He takes a seat on the floor between Jim and Spock, and exhales. Now that he’s completed his task, and the adrenaline has started to wear off, he’s feeling the effects of the poison more acutely. There is an incredible weariness in his bones, and it aches every time he breathes. He leans back, and closes his eyes. “So do your damn job, alright? I’ve done mine.”

  
  


McCoy doesn’t remember falling asleep, or more accurately, going unconscious. He wakes in the med bay, with Chapel standing over his bed, and Spock sitting on the berth beside his. 

“It’s nice to see you finally awake, Doctor. You had everyone worried.” She says with a soft smile. Gently, she helps him sit up, and begins to run diagnostics. 

“Well, it wasn’t my intent to worry anyone.” He grumbles. His mouth is incredibly dry, and he still feels a little weak. “How long was I out?”

“Twenty-seven hours, thirteen minutes, and seven seconds.” 

McCoy blanches. He hadn’t expected the poison to have him out so long. 

“It was extremely unlikely that you would awaken from such a large, untreated dose.” Spock says. If he wasn’t a damn computer, McCoy would’ve sworn that he was being pissy.

“In other words,” Chapel says, as she inputs his data into a datapad. “You were lucky.”

“Hrmph. I don’t like relying on lady luck to keep on living, but I’ll take it. Am I all clear for a meal?”

“Just about. I’ll go pick something up for you, if you don’t mind keeping the Doctor company, Mr. Spock?”

Spock nods. Christine gives them both a smile and slips into the hall. 

As soon as the door closes, Spock is standing, wearing what appears to be a displeased expression. 

“That was incredibly risky of you, Doctor. You could’ve died doing such an unnecessary maneuver.”

“Well, it worked, didn’t it? You got us all out of there and we’re all alive. No harm done.”

“I’d expect such recklessness from Jim, but not from you. It was-”

“Illogical?” McCoy scoffs. “ We both know it made the most sense. What’s really illogical here is you. Why’re you so upset with what I did?”

Spock looks away, his hands curled into fists by his side. There is a green flush to his cheeks that wasn’t there before. “You put yourself into danger more often than you should. You are selfless, and too emotional.” 

“And?” 

“It appears to afflict you more when I am involved.”

Now it is McCoy’s turn to blush. “What are you accusing me of?”

Spock gives him a deadpan look. McCoy attempts to hold face, but it fails spectacularly.

“And so what if I tend to take more risks when you’re involved? I still do my job. I still fulfill my duties.”

Spock is sitting on the edge of his bed before McCoy has even registered that he’s moved. “It interferes with mine. I cannot concentrate at full capacity when you continually place yourself into unnecessary danger. It is,” Spock seems to have trouble verbalizing the word. “Illogical, but it is true.”

McCoy sits there in silence. Is this Spock’s attempt at a confession? His face is still awfully green. 

McCoy laughs, loud and boisterous. “Aw, so you do care about little ol’ me. It’s just like you to come about it that way.” He carefully, slowly raises an arm, and drapes it around Spock’s neck, giving him every chance to push him away. He leans forward, telegraphing every move. Their lips are a centimeter apart. Spock is not breathing. He is frozen in anticipation. 

“I’ve got a nice, big cup of coffee for you, Doctor, so you better not complain about the soup.” Christine says as the door slides open. 

McCoy falls back so fast his head hits the back of the berth. Spock merely leans back, regaining his professional posture.

McCoy clears his throat as he rubs the back of his aching head. “Thank you, Christine. I appreciate it.”

“It’s no problem, Doctor. I’m just glad to see that you’re up and doing well.” 

“Yes,” Spock says, as he stands, and straightens his uniform. “I’ll report to the Captain that you’re awake, and will be ready to return to duty within the next few days. Enjoy your meal.” As he passes by Chapel, he nods in recognition. 

Christine places his tray on the bedside table and watches in confusion as Spock hurries to leave. “What was that all about?”

McCoy laughs as he grabs his cup. “Oh, I dunno, Christine. I suppose we just startled him, is all. He’s not as used to our illogical behavior as he claims to be.”


End file.
